


want me to love you in moderation? well don't you know, i wish i could

by sanzuh



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Lack of Communication, Mild Smut, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Not Canon Compliant, POV Alternating, Post-Canon, but I suppose there's show influence?, if you take the show as canon that is, minor Val/Mya, past Harry/Sansa, past Jon/Val, this is more book verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:33:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21556300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanzuh/pseuds/sanzuh
Summary: He had Winterfell and Sansa, and everything that should have been Robb's, or Bran's or Rickon's, and now hers, and he couldn't even allow himself to enjoy it. The guilt was eating him up, tearing away pieces of him every single day and keeping him up at night. All of his brothers—who had never been his true brothers—had died so that he could be Lord of Winterfell, so that he could use the girl he'd once called sister to take everything that was hers for his own.Even with Jon it was just her claim he needed. But at least to him, Winterfell was more than a keep and a title. He understood what her home meant to her. They shared the same memories and suffered the same losses. Jon cared for her, but he didn't love her the way a man should love his lady wife.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 17
Kudos: 301
Collections: Jonsa Holidays 2019





	want me to love you in moderation? well don't you know, i wish i could

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FromTheBoundlessSea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FromTheBoundlessSea/gifts).



Val had learned that some things died softly, they bled out slowly, leaving you numb and vaguely dissatisfied, but it barely hurt at all. It left you wondering whether you’d dreamed it all up, asking yourself what ifs a thousand times or more, and yet with enough hope you could still revive it, if only you had the will to try, but in the end, you didn't care enough to try, so you let it bleed out into a soft whisper of a death. 

It had been like that between her and Jon Snow. Theirs had never been a story of great passion or epic love. Winter had brought them together, seeking comfort and companionship, and it had been easier to ignore all the things they longed for and call the ache they felt lust. His kneeler ways had driven him to dress it up with their odd brand of honour and call it love on occasion, but she'd laughed at his attempt to turn their affair into something it was not.

She'd never wanted his heart, and she knew well enough that he didn't want hers. She’d seen the way he looked at his so-called sister, even before they went north and she'd started sharing his furs, and she had known. It mattered little to her. She’d known she and Jon would never last. She was fond of him and he’d become a good lover under her guidance, yet in the end he hadn’t been her first and he wouldn’t be the last.

But she had ended things after the Great War, as soon they'd returned to Winterfell. She'd agreed to accompany him south again. Winter was still reigning, and both the Free Folk and the Kneelers needed each other. Val had always been practical enough to accept such a truth, but what she wouldn't accept was to be a vessel to satisfy a man's needs, when it was another woman's company he was craving, and that woman was within his reach.

Sansa Stark was not his true sister after all. Ned Stark had not been his father, and they were only cousins. Such a relationship would still be frowned upon in many villages beyond the Wall, but she understood it generally wasn't among kneelers, and still, Jon Snow had made no attempt to steal the woman he wanted, or to court her in some ridiculous kneeler way. 

And then the Southron Queen had given her orders. Val respected the woman, having heard her life's story many times in the camps during the War, but she also disliked her, and she didn't trust her. A person who can control a dragon should never be trusted. Dragons were magic, fire made flesh, and fire was fickle. One couldn't predict which way the flames would go.

Val had been grateful for the presence of dragonfire when they'd all been trying to fight off the never-ending attacks of the countless legions of wights, but she wasn't blind enough to ignore how those flames could just as easily obliterate her people. And neither was Jon Snow, she supposed. It must be why he'd agreed. 

He'd refused to obey at first. He'd raged against the Dragon Queen's solution to bind the North to her and ensure its loyalty. It had been a rather ridiculous notion, as anyone could see where Jon Snow's true loyalties lay, so Val had snorted when the Queen had explained her plan, which had obviously been concocted by the dwarf standing by the armrest of her chair. The woman had thrown her a glance, and there had been a flash in those violet eyes that had made Val shiver like no cold ever could.

Fortunately for her, the Dragon Queen's attention had quickly been diverted by Jon Snow's loud and numerous objections, and Sansa Stark's spine had grown ever more stiff, her face going blank, at the vehemency with which Jon Snow argued against having to marry her, until he'd said: "I won't force her, I won't take away her claim!"

In that moment, she'd glanced up at him and covered his hand with her own, taking advantage of his need to pause his ranting to take a deep breath, and he'd blinked, turning to meet her gaze. The misty-eyed smile she'd offered him in that moment had almost made Val laugh again, but she'd averted her eyes instead, not wanting to disrupt the intimate moment between the two of them.

When she looked back at them, Jon was still staring at Sansa in a way she'd never witnessed before, and she thought it must be obvious to all the other people in the room what was going on. And perhaps it had been, Val mused now, standing to the side as she watched the two of them kneel in front of Winterfell's Heart Tree, but not to the two of them. 

She felt a prickle running up the back of her neck. Someone was staring at her. Lazily, she turned to meet the gaze of the person who was watching her, and was surprised to see it was the pretty girl from the Vale. Mya Stone was glaring at her with those big blue eyes of hers. 

Val flashed her a grin before turning her attention back to the main event, and this time, she did laugh when Jon Snow held out a hand to help his bride to her feet again as she glanced up at him from underneath her lashes, a pretty blush staining her ivory cheeks. The sound got lost in the cheers that erupted as they faced their people as husband and wife for the first time.

 _Kneelers,_ Val thought, shaking her head as she watched them walk down the path out of the Godswood. _Always making things more complicated than they should be._

* * *

In the past, Jon had often wondered whether there was a fate worse than knowing you would never get any of the things you wanted with your whole heart, but still wanting them, and feeling like he might the most terrible person in the world for wishing they could be his. It turned out he'd been a fool, as in many ways, this was worse.

He had Winterfell and Sansa, and everything that should have been Robb's, or Bran's or Rickon's, and now hers, and he couldn't even allow himself to enjoy it. The guilt was eating him up, tearing away pieces of him every single day and keeping him up at night. All of his brothers—who had never been his true brothers—had died so that he could be Lord of Winterfell, so that he could use the girl he'd once called sister to take everything that was hers for his own.

"I'm glad it's you," she'd whispered on their wedding night, but she'd trembled like a leaf when she had started to remove her shift. He'd turned around and told her to go to sleep. This was one thing he could vow not to take from her, not until she wanted him to.

He knew there was a chance she would never want him, but she may want to have a babe someday, and he could give her one. She might even come to love him for it, despite everything he'd done to her.

 _Gods,_ what a vile creature he was! He'd already taken everything from her, and he still wanted more, he still wanted her. But she didn't want him, and perhaps she never would.

More than three moons had passed since their wedding day, and though they spent many nights together in her solar, in a quiet companionship he'd come to cherish, she hadn't indicated that she was ready to take the next step and invite him into her bedroom again.

He'd been there a couple of times, on nights when she'd been too tired to stay up for his usual evening visits and had already retired, and on early mornings when some task or another had required him to leave Winterfell, so he could say goodbye before leaving.

And once again tonight, his feet were carrying him to Sansa's chambers, almost of their own accord. He hadn't been consciously planning to go there, in fact, he'd been postponing his visit, half afraid of something he couldn't quite identify, but somehow he ended up in front of her door.

It was late, late enough for him to know she would have already retreated to her bedroom to get ready for the night. Perhaps he should just leave her be and return to his own chambers. 

But he was leaving the next day, and this time he'd be gone for much longer than usual. His aunt, Queen Daenerys, had summoned him to King's Landing, and though he was loath to oblige, he knew better than to ignore her orders soon after he'd tried to defy her.

He didn't care much about what she might do to him, but after nightmares of her returning to Winterfell to burn it to the ground had kept him awake for a sennight, he'd sent a raven back to King's Landing, promising her he'd join her there as soon as his duties as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North allowed him to leave again. 

He'd be gone for three moons, and he couldn't forgive himself if he left without saying goodbye to her. Not tomorrow at dawn in the courtyard, with all the other people in the keep surrounding them, but in the intimacy of her own chambers.

Perhaps he could try to make her understand how much he cared about her, despite what she might think, and that he'd try to be a good husband to her, that he would give her whatever she wanted, if it was within his power to give it.

He found that Sansa was not alone when he was allowed inside her chambers. Despite the late hour, she had company. She and Mya Stone were sitting up in bed, wiping cake crumbs away from their mouths and hands.

It was a common practice for ladies in the North to share a bed with a maid when they were unwed, or if their husbands were not sleeping in the same bed for some reason. The warmth was needed during the long winter nights, and the company appreciated.

He remembered how Sansa had shared a bed with Jeyne Poole when they were children, and Arya with Beth Cassel when she hadn't tiptoed out of her own room to sneak into his, demanding him to tell her ghost stories.

He almost felt like a boy again when their giggles died as he entered the room and Mya narrowed her eyes at the sight of him.

"Ladies," he greeted them with a curt nod.

"Apologies, my lord," Sansa answered. "I wasn't expecting a visit from you tonight."

His heart sank into his stomach. Did she truly believe he would leave without saying goodbye?

"Mya," she muttered.

The other girl wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and pushed herself off the bed, glowering at Jon as she backed out of the room. He waited for the door to click shut and for her footsteps to retreat before looking up at Sansa again.

"Please, sit," she said, keeping her eyes down and patting the furs the bed.

"Can I get you anything? Some ale or wine?" she asked as he sat down on the bed.

"No, thank you, my lady" he said quickly, his voice coming out all squeaky and croaky, which he tried to cover up with a cough.

"Have you..." she started. From the corner of his eye, he caught her biting her lip, drawing his attention to her plump, pink mouth, his breath hitching as he imagined kissing it.

"Have you come to take your rights?" she finished her question.

His mouth fell open. "No!" he answered, too quickly, too loudly.

Her shoulders sagged, probably in relief, but perhaps it was disappointment-- no, he couldn't allow himself to think that, to hope. 

The silence lasted too long, but again, she was the one who broke

"Tell me what I can do to please you," she whispered, her cheeks turning scarlet as she licked her lips, avoiding his gaze as he glanced up.

He stared at her, swallowing a groan, and took a deep breath to steady himself. She wanted to know how to _please_ him, ever the creature of duty. Some selfish, filthy part of him wanted to take advantage of that. _You could have her,_ it whispered, _isn't that exactly what you want?_

 _No, not like this._ Besides, he was leaving the next day, another good reason why he shouldn't go through with it, no matter how much he wanted to. 

"Nothing," he told her. "You are already very pleasing."

"Am I?" she asked, and there was venom in her voice. "Tell me, my lord, why are you here?" Her tone was as cold as her icy glare.

"I am leaving on the morrow," he muttered.

She tilted her chin up. "I am aware."

"I wanted-- I wanted to say goodbye before I left."

"Well, I suppose you just have." She folded her hands in her lap. "Was there anything else, my lord?"

The pang in his chest knocked the breath out of him. "No," he mumbled.

"Good," she answered. "It's late and I'm tired."

* * *

Sansa had learned a long time ago that no one would ever marry her for love. She was the last Stark of Winterfell, but that had only ever made her a pawn to be used in the great game. _The key to the North,_ they'd whispered, as if she was not a person at all, but just a thing, a means to an end.

Even with Jon it was just her claim he needed. But at least to him, Winterfell was more than a keep and a title. He understood what her home meant to her. They shared the same memories and suffered the same losses. Jon cared for her, but he didn't love her the way a man should love his lady wife.

She'd thought it was her fault, after freezing up on their wedding night. Her stomach had been fluttering with nerves and anticipation, but the moment she'd started unlacing her shift with Jon watching her, she'd been reminded of the uncomfortable couplings with her previous husband, Harry Hardyng. Her own hands felt so much smaller and more gentle than his greedy ones ever had, but in that moment, they had brought back memories of all the other unwanted touches she'd known.

Jon had turned away from her, probably disappointed and disgusted that he'd been forced to wed such a broken thing instead of keeping his wildling princess. Sansa had heard the stories when he and Val had returned to Winterfell after the Great War. 

They'd fallen in love while fighting together, and since Jon had brought her home, Sansa thought his intentions had been clear. At first she hadn't understood the pang she'd felt in her chest, or the way her stomach dropped and lurched when she learned of what had grown between Jon and Val, but then Daenerys had given her orders.

Sansa and Jon had been wed within a fortnight, so Daenerys could return south to finally claim the Iron Throne, and Sansa had expected Jon to send the woman away. 

Val was there to represent the Free Folk while they were all making plans to rebuild the North, but three moons went by, and all the lords had returned to their own keeps, but still, Val stayed in Winterfell, and Sansa understood.

After their wedding night, Sansa had thought that there was still hope for her and Jon. Her lord father and lady mother hadn't loved each other when they were wed, but they built their love stone by stone, over the years. She and Jon had the advantage of already knowing each other, and Sansa knew he might come to love her if she gave him a son.

But three moons went by, and Jon never visited her bed to take his rights, and Sansa knew.

Growing up, Sansa had never understood how heavy the burden of his bastardy weighed on Jon, but since they'd reunited, she'd learned how much he'd suffered being the stain on Ned Stark's honour and marriage.

And perhaps, somehow, she'd come to believe that meant he would never dishonour his wife in such a way, but apparently his love for the wildling princess was stronger than his duty to her, stronger even than his own honour. 

And now he was leaving her. Her only comfort was that he wouldn't be taking his mistress with him, which unfortunately meant she would still be staying in Winterfell, but at least that was better than having to see them travel south together.

She stood tall and proud in the courtyard, with the flurry of the last preparations all around her, her spine stiff and her face immobile. She forced herself to smile as Jon walked over to her to say goodbye.

"I wish you a safe journey, my lord," she told him. "I'll pray for a swift return."

"Will you?" he asked her. His face gave nothing away, but it looked as if a storm was raging behind his narrowed grey eyes.

She offered him another smile. "Aye, I will." She licked her lips and whispered: "You'll be missed." She couldn't bring herself to say _"I'll miss you."_ It was true, but it wouldn't even matter to him. 

The corner of his mouth curled up, but he didn't quite manage to smile, his face instead twisting into a wistful smile. He clenched his fist and swung it back and forth a couple of times before reaching for her hand to brush his lips against her knuckles.

They felt warm and soft against her skin, sending a shiver down her spine that ended in an eruption of butterflies in her stomach, but then he pulled away, releasing her hand, and she suddenly felt colder than before. 

"My lady," he murmured with a stiff nod, and then he was gone. 

* * *

Jon Snow had been in a foul mood ever since he arrived in King's Landing, and hadn't even bothered to hide his disdain for the place and its people. Tyrion supposed Daenerys could use that to her advantage.

Unfortunately it hadn't been of much help when she'd kept him waiting for hours before allowing him into the Throne Room on the day he'd arrived. 

"What do you want from me?" he'd snapped at her as soon as Missandei was done reciting her titles. 

Tyrion had known it would be a risk to invite Jon Snow to come to King's Landing, but he hadn't counted on the possibility of it being a mistake. He'd proposed the idea to the Queen himself.

_"Show him off to the court. Let them see he supports your claim, and that he won't be a threat to your reign."_

_"What if they see him and decide they prefer him on the Throne?"_ her answer had been.

The risk was always there, whether they'd seen him or not, and that was why Daenerys still feared him. But Tyrion knew another war was the last thing the Seven Kingdoms needed, and the Queen being willing to resort to kinslaying to preserve her own position would only infuriate the lords.

 _"You've met Jon Snow,"_ he'd reminded her. _"He doesn't have the knowledge or experience to deal with Southron politics, he wouldn't know how to charm the high lords"_

But it was proving harder to get Jon Snow to cooperate than he'd anticipated, and Daenerys wasn't helping her own cause in that matter. After their bad start on the day of his arrival, instead of trying to placate him, as Tyrion had advised her, she'd only asserted her dominance over him with threats and orders. 

Sitting outside the council room where they were having a private meeting, draining cup after cup of wine, Tyrion was contemplating whether it would be worth the risk of being on the receiving end of the Queen's ire if he were to barge into the room to prevent a disaster from happening.

Finally, after two hours, nerve-wrecked and too drunk for the early hour, he leapt off his stool as the door opened and Jon Snow strode out of the room, the perpetual scowl on his face had been replaced by a more resigned but still sullen gloom.

"Well, what's the verdict?" Tyrion asked him.

His frown grew even deeper. "She wants me to sign a charter stating I'm renouncing my claim and attend a couple of court functions. She won't keep me here for longer than a fortnight."

"That's good news, isn't it?" he pointed out in an overly cheerful voice, raising his cup. "You'll be able to return to the frozen wasteland you call home before the next moon's turn!"

He clenched his jaw and his hands hung by his sides in tight fists, his knuckles turning white.

"She wants me to give her an heir within a year of returning to Winterfell," he sighed.

"That shouldn't be too difficult," Tyrion answered, taking another swig of wine.

His shoulders sagged, and he stared at his own feet. "Sansa and I... Our marriage is still unconsummated," he mumbled.

"Ah," he said, and drained his cup. "I'm not unfamiliar with that situation." He ignored the glare the other man shot him. "How hard can it be to convince her?" he quipped. "She must be cold and lonely all alone in that big bed of hers."

He kept staring daggers at him, but then he deflated. "It's not that easy. And she's not alone most nights."

"Beg your pardon?"

"She has bedmaids. It makes things awkward."

"Bedmaids?" He shook his head to chase away the titillating image forming in his mind, afraid Jon Snow might be able to guess his train of thought, but still couldn't stop himself from saying: "Maybe she doesn't care for a man's touch then?"

He narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"I know you're not a man of the world, but surely you must know there are women who have these inclinations?"

The confounded look on his face was the most entertaining thing Tyrion had seen in a long while.

He filled another cup of wine and smacked his lips. "She _was_ awfully close with that Tyrell girl."

Suddenly Snow grabbed him by the doublet, wine soaked his breeches as his cup clattered to the floor and his feet were lifted off the ground.

"Enough with these riddles! Explain yourself!" he seethed.

Tyrion tried to shrug. "Maybe your wife prefers girls."

His feet hit the ground, more gently than he'd expected, but his legs were unsteady and he still stumbled. When he looked up, the other man looked devastated.

"Cheer up, Snow," he tried to comfort him. "If you play this smart, you could have two women in your bed instead of one soon."

His fury was back in an instant, so Tyrion quickly scrambled to his feet to get out of Snow's sight. 

* * *

The quiet and smell of the stables were comforting to Mya as she curried down her horse. She still missed the mountain, but she loved going out riding on the moors, especially on a cold day.

She almost enjoyed the alone time with Wiley even more than she did the riding. It calmed her down and set her mind at ease. There were so many people in Winterfell, and sometimes she needed to get away from all of that.

Her peace was suddenly disturbed when Wiley's ears perked up and she heard footsteps approaching.

Because of the dark, she only recognized the other woman when she'd almost closed the distance between them. It was the Wildling woman, Val, and anger bubbled up in Mya's chest.

"What are you doing here?" she snapped.

Val leaned against one of the stalls and offered her a lazy grin. Mya could see the appeal. The blonde was beautiful and she had an alluring confidence. But in the end that didn't matter. She should know better than to let a man use her the way Jon Snow was doing with her.

Whatever may have been between the two of them before, he was a married man now, and a craven, who couldn't make up his mind. He was dishonouring both women, and more importantly, he was hurting Alayne-- Sansa, she mentally corrected herself.

Despite having known her true identity for years, Mya still found herself referring to her friend with the name she'd been using when they had first met.

"Is there some kind of ridiculous kneeler rule against me being here?" Val asked.

 _Maybe there should be._ She shrugged, returning to brushing down Wiley. "You startled me. But seriously, what are you still doing here?"

"I like horses," Val answered matter-of-factly, proving her words by stroking the mane of the garron inside the stall who'd approached her.

Mya rolled her eyes. "That's not what I meant. What are you doing _here?"_

"Apologies, m'lady," the other woman answered with a mocking bow. "I'm just a simple Wildling. I don't understand what it is you're asking me."

"I'm not a lady," Mya muttered. "You know perfectly well what I'm talking about."

Val smirked at her. "Do I?"

Wildlings were supposed to appreciate directness, right? Well, Mya could be blunt. "I mean: leave Jon Snow alone. He has a wife."

She threw her head back and laughed. "I'm aware of that."

"Are you?" she sneered. "Then why are you still here? Leave Winterfell before Jon returns so they have a chance at making this work."

"You think I'm staying here for Jon Snow?" she asked, tilting her head.

Mya nodded.

"I'm not."

"So the two of you are not fucking behind Lady Sansa's back?"

She shook her head. "That ended a long time ago."

"Why?"

"Seriously? You haven't seen the way he keeps staring at her as if she hung the moon in the sky?"

"At Lady Sansa?"

"Who else?"

Mya frowned. Perhaps she'd been too busy glaring at Jon Snow to notice. "You think he's in love with her?"

"Head over heels."

She should tell Sansa. There was no time to waste. "Wait," she muttered, narrowing her eyes. "If you know Jon Snow is in love with his wife, what are you still doing in Winterfell?"

Val shrugged. "Maybe I've grown lazy, spending all my time with you kneelers. Or perhaps there's someone else who caught my eye."

She winked at Mya and turned around to leave the stables, a slight sway to her hips as she walked away. 

* * *

Mya was beaming at her, but all Sansa could do was stare back at the other girl with a blank face.

She wanted to believe what her friend had just told her. Whatever had happened between Jon and Val had been over for a long time, and more importantly, Jon loved _her._ _He loves me,_ she whispered to herself.

 _Stop._ Hope started blooming in her chest, but she needed to push it down again. She couldn't, she couldn't allow herself to believe that it might be true. She was sure she wouldn't survive being disappointed again, if she allowed her heart to hope.

"She's lying," she muttered. "She's lying, Mya."

Mya grabbed both of her hands and squeezed her fingers between her own. "I know you're scared, Alayne, but _think_ about it! Why would she be lying?"

 _Sansa, my name is Sansa._ "People lie all the time. Often they don't even have a reason." It was a game. She wasn't sure which one, and what Val's purpose might be, but it must be.

"We can't trust her." She wanted to. She hated being so suspicious of everyone around her, but she still remembered the other times she'd followed her trusting heart and allowed the people she'd put her faith in to crush it.

There was pity in Mya's eyes, and Sansa hated seeing it there. "I understand. But you _can_ trust me. And I believe her."

Sansa shook her head and pulled her hands away from Mya's grip. "Why?" she asked.

Mya bit her lip. "I can't explain it. I just do."

Sansa pursed her lips to keep in the huff that threatened to escape from her mouth. She didn't want to hurt her friend by dismissing her judgement, but she still remembered what had happened with Mychel Redfort. Mychel had promised Mya he'd marry her and she'd let him take her maidenhead, and then he'd wed some other girl.

Did it feel the same for Val as it had for Mya? Was that why her friend felt sympathy for the other woman, why she wanted to believe her?

"You should talk to her, Sansa."

She blinked at her. "I beg your pardon?"

Mya reached for her hand again. "Go and talk to Val. Ask her and see for yourself."

Sansa winced at the idea and her throat closed up. _No._ She couldn't do that. She'd make a fool of herself. She imagined standing in front of the beautiful and fearsome wildling woman and asking her if it was true that she was no longer bedding her husband.

 _No._ She'd been avoiding the woman for many moons now, and there was no reason to change that now. 

She closed her eyes, vaguely aware that Mya was still talking to her. She rubbed her temples and sighed.

"Mya, I wish to be alone now."

As soon as her friend had left, she rose to her feet and unlocked the top drawer of her writing desk. The raven had arrived earlier that morning, bringing her a letter from Jon.

His message had been short and mostly formal, but he'd expressed relief over being released from Daenerys' service after only such a short while. He had written that he was glad to be returning home, and that he had a matter to discuss with her. 

Part of her wanted to believe he was happy to be returning to her, but she couldn't think of any reason why the Queen had been willing to let him come back to Winterfell so quickly. It worried her. What could be the matter he wanted to discuss with her?

If the North was in danger, Jon would have warned her. He would have mentioned something in his letter, or sent a messenger ahead, so she could call the banners. _No,_ it must be a more personal issue. 

Perhaps he'd asked Daenerys for an annulment. Perhaps he'd asked her to take Val as his second wife. After all, Aegon the Conqueror himself had married Visenya for duty, and Rhaenys for love. It might not have been that difficult for him to convince Daenerys.

She wouldn't let him set her aside in her own home. She was a Stark of Winterfell, and she could be brave. Jon had had two wildling lovers, and from everything she'd heard, she knew wildling women were bold.

 _I can be bold,_ she told herself. It was not part of her nature, but she had done if before, when she'd been Alayne. She could do it again.

Petyr had wanted to teach her the art of seduction, so she could ensnare Harry in order to gain the support of the knights of the Vale. His teachings had made her uncomfortable, but she knew there was truth in them, even though in the end, it had taken very little seducing to convince Harry once he'd learned her true name. 

Cersei had already told her years ago that tears weren't a woman's only weapon, and Sansa had grown tired of weeping. 

She walked into her bedroom and started rummaging through one of her chests of clothing. The gown she was looking for had been a gift from Princess Arianne of Dorne, a gift Sansa had been absolutely mortified to receive at the time, but she knew it would serve her well now. 

* * *

The great granite walls of his home were visible from a far distance, even through the swirls of mist that appeared as if they were trying to conceal it from him.

His heart surged at the sight. _Home._ But for how much longer? That was up to Sansa to decide. He knew she'd never ask him to leave, but he wasn't sure he'd be able to stay yet.

He was going to tell her everything: his greed, his guilt, and his feelings for her. He'd ask her to tell him the truth in return, and he would do everything within his power to give her the happiness she deserved, even if it meant leaving her. 

Daenerys would never know, and if she ever asked why they hadn't produced an heir for her, he'd tell her his death had made him unable to father children. 

He knew it wasn't an extremely solid plan, but he'd worry about all of that later. Some problems couldn't be anticipated, one could only deal with them once they presented themselves. 

A sense of calm settled over him once he'd made his decision, and the rest of the journey was uneventful. 

Finally, they reached Winterfell, and the gates were opened. This was it, the moment he'd been yearning for and dreading at the same time. He rode through the gap as soon as he could, slowing down until he could leap out of the saddle. The household was still gathering to receive him, but his eyes kept searching.

He tossed the reins carelessly over the saddle's pommel and started walking, the crowd parting before him. His feet moved of their own accord, but there was a heavy, painful pulse between his eyebrows and an unsettling knot in his stomach. The immense relief that washed over him was tainted by a fear he couldn't quite name.

And then he realized she wasn't there. He didn't understand how the pain could still hit him so hard, but at least he had his answer then. But he needed to talk to her anyway. 

He recognized one of her maids in the crowd and asked the girl: "Where is my lady wife?"

The maid curtseyed for him and told him: "Lady Stark is waiting for you in her chambers, but she's asked us to prepare a bath for you before you visit her there."

He didn't want a bath, he wanted to see her. But he was filthy after being on the road for a moon and he smelled of old sweat and horses. She'd be displeased if he showed up in her chambers stinking and covered in grime.

He enjoyed the bath more than he expected. It soothed his sore muscles, and restored some of his earlier calm.

When he'd dried off and dressed, there was a meal of cheese and bread waiting for him in his solar. 

Not even two hours after he'd arrived, he was standing in front of her door, as ready as he'd ever be.

She was not in her solar, which had him wondering whether her maid had been wrong. Perhaps some matter had come up which required her attention, or perhaps she'd simply grown tired of waiting for him.

He paced the length of the room twice, trying to decide what to do. Should he wait for her here, or should he go and try to find her?

He knew he wouldn't be able to stay here and do nothing but wait, but he had no idea where she might be. He might miss her again if he went looking for her.

He walked over to her writing desk to leave her a message, and that was where he found the note. There was only one word on it: _bedroom._

Could it be meant for him? Did she truly wish for him to visit her in her bedroom during the day?

There was only one way to find out. He closed the distance to the door in three long strides and knocked on the heavy wood.

"Come in," he could hear her answering.

He entered and closed the door behind him, turning to the spot where her voice had come from, and his mouth fell open.

Sansa was draped over the pillows on her bed, dressed in a flimsy, emerald green gown made of gauzy, wispy silk that left little to the imagination. Her auburn hair was gleaming like copper in the soft candle light that filled the room, and her porcelain skin seemed to be glowing.

His mouth went dry, and he felt a wave of desire ripple through his body. How could he ever even think of leaving her? But then he remembered why he'd come here.

* * *

Sansa's heart was trying to beat out of her chest as the door was pushed open and Jon entered her bedroom. When he turned to look at her, she could immediately tell that the gown was having the desired effect on him, but then his face fell.

"Were you expecting someone else?" he asked her, looking at her with a furrowed brow, resembling a sad pup who'd just been scolded by his master.

Sansa snapped. "How dare you?" she screeched, pushing herself up and off the bed. 

He took a step back, his eyebrows travelling up to his hairline. 

"You betray me by bedding another woman in my own home, you never visit my bed, ignore me most of the time and drive me to desperation, making me dress like a common whore to get your attention, and you dare accuse me of being unfaithful to you?"

She was panting by the time she'd finished and her throat already felt raw. She tried to fight back the tears.

Jon's mouth had fallen open and he stared at her as he closed and opened it again several times. "You don't look like a whore," he mumbled weakly after a short silence that was filled with the sound of her own ragged breathing. 

She huffed out a laugh, shaking her head.

He still seemed to be processing her words. "What do you mean: I bedded another woman in your home?"

She clenched her jaw, breathing through her nose to keep the tears from springing from her eyes. "Please, don't play dumb. At least offer me the courtesy of finally being honest with me!"

Sansa," he exclaimed, shaking his head, his eyes wide. "I don't have a clue what you are talking about!"

"Don't lie to me!"

"What do you think I'm lying about?" He sounded so honest, so genuinely baffled. She'd never known he was such a good liar. 

"Val," she spat out.

"What about her?"

She couldn't believe he was still trying to deny it. "Val has been your mistress for as long as we've been wed, and for a long while before that!"

He laughed, and she wasn't sure what was still holding her back from clawing his eyes out with her fingernails.

His laughter disappeared as he took in her face and he shook his head. "No," he told her. "What happened between me and Val ended a long time ago."

That was what Mya had told her. Could it be true? It didn't truly matter though, did it? "But you still love her."

"No," he said without missing a beat, but he drew the word out. "No," he said more firmly. "It wasn't love. We were two scared and lonely people seeking comfort during a war we feared we could never win. Nothing more, nothing less."

She crossed her arms over her chest, as if the gesture could protect her heart. She wanted to believe him, and she could feel her resolve crumbling. Mentally, she went over his words again.

"Who did you think I was expecting earlier?" she asked him.

He stared down at his boots and cleared his throat. "Mya," he murmured.

"Mya?" she scoffed. "Why would you think...?"

"Lord Tyrion implied that you weren't interested in men," he explained. "That you preferred the company of other women;"

She arched an eyebrow. "And you believed him?"

"I don't know." He shrugged. "It sounded credible at the time."

She sank back down on the bed and patted the space next to her, inviting him to sit with her. "I don't prefer the company of women," she told him. "Not like that."

They sat in silence while Sansa tried to find her courage again. She felt deflated after her earlier outburst, and perhaps even a little ashamed, but she knew there was one more question she needed to ask him. If she didn't do it now, she might never do it.

"Jon," she whispered. "On our wedding night... Why did you turn away from me? And why didn't you ever visit my bed after that night?"

She could feel him tense up beside her, and he inhaled deeply a couple of times before he spoke again. 

"I've always wanted to be Lord of Winterfell, for as long as I can remember." That was not the answer she was expecting, but she wouldn't interrupt him. She could tell he was struggling.

"And when we were married, I finally got my wish. But the cost..." He looked up at her and shook his head. "It was supposed be Robb, or Bran's or Rickon's, but they're all dead now. It was supposed to be yours, but I took it from you."

"No," she put her hand on his arm. "I agreed, remember? You didn't take anything."

He shook his head. "I did. And that's why I swore to myself that I wouldn't take anything more from you if I could help it. I won't take my rights until you truly want me to."

"Jon," she started to say, but he interrupted her again.

"Wait, there's more. Daenerys wants us to produce an heir for her, soon, but I need you to know that doesn't change anything for me. I'll wait until you're ready."

"Jon," she said again. "You don't have to wait. I am ready."

"Sansa," he said softly, and it brought a smile to her face. She couldn't remember when he'd last called her that. "There's one more thing you need to know."

* * *

Sansa was waiting for him to say something, but he couldn't find the words.

He'd been so determined to tell her about his feelings earlier, so relieved he'd finally be able to unburden himself by sharing his heart with her. But now that he was sitting in her pretty bedroom, bathed in soft candle light, and smelling of sweet things that all screamed Sansa to him, he was lost for words.

Could he ever truly belong here with her? Every time he tried to open his mouth and put his thoughts and feelings into words, he was reminded of the fact that he was not made for grand declarations of love.

He was certain he was going to fuck this up, but it was too late to back out now. She was still waiting. 

_Words are wind,_ a voice inside of him whispered, _show her._

He focused, shaking off his throughts to return to the moment and looked at her.

She offered him an encouraging smile, but she was wringing her hands together in her lap. What was she nervous about? Oddly enough, her fidgeting gave him back his courage. 

He shuffled closer to her, and slowly he lifted his hand, until he was cupping her cheek.

He smiled when she leaned into his touch, a little hesitant at first, with confusion clouding her bright blue eyes, and tentatively, the corner of her own mouth curled up. 

He swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to ignore the frantic beating of his heart. He licked his lips and his gaze dropped to hers, his attention drawn there by her teeth sinking into the plump pink of her bottom lip.

Finally, he leaned in and closed the distance between them to press a soft kiss to her lips.

She remained completely immobile, and he wondered whether he should pull away or kiss her again.

He retreated only far enough to find her eyes, which had a question in them, but didn’t appear scared or unwilling, so he kissed her again.

They'd shared a couple of kisses before. A quick peck in the Godswood, during their wedding ceremony, and later some attempts at more on their wedding night, but this was different.

He tried to pour all the words he couldn't say into the kiss, all of his love and devotion, and then she started kissing him back.

When they parted for breath, she offered him a tentative smile. 

"I like the dress," he rasped. "I like you in the dress." He curled one hand around her waist and brushed her hair away from her face. "I love you, Sansa."

"Jon," she sighed and pulled him in for another kiss. 

He could feel the warmth and softness of her body through the barely there yet tantalizing barrier of her flimsy gown as she pushed herself closer.

"Sansa, we don't have to do more right now," he said, already trembling with desire.

She caught his gaze and gave him a determined glare. "I want all of you."

His mouth went dry. "You want me?" he asked, his voice rough. He couldn't quote believe it. 

"Yes," she whispered.

His throat felt tight. "There is no one else?"

She framed his face between her hands. "Only you."

He groaned and pulled her on top of him. "I want you so much," he confessed. 

She licked her lips before she launched herself at him again. They kissed and embraced, mouths and hands striving to caress as they tried to get closer and closer.

It was so easy to get lost in the overwhelming feeling of kissing her, holding her, touching her, but he reminded himself to ask her: "Are you sure?" 

"Yes," she sighed.

"You seemed so scared on our wedding night," he couldn't help but remember. 

"I was," she confirmed. "My past experiences have not been pleasant, but I still want you."

"Sansa," he whispered roughtly.

She nuzzled his cheek. "I love you, Jon, but please, be gentle."

She could feel him hesitate, so she begged him: "Please, kiss me again," almost wincing at how small and needy her voice sounded.

But if Jon had noticed, he didn't seem to care, he just wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her gaze as he put his thumb on her chin before covering her mouth with his own. His fingers lightly brushed her cheek and jaw and earlobe as his lips moved gently and cautiously.

His hand was barely touching her hip, but it was deliciously scorching her skin all the same. She felt like she was drowning, but she didn't fight it, she gave in, resting her hands on his chest, trusting his body to keep her grounded.

She took his hands and placed them on the lacings of her green gown. He glanced up at her face. She was biting her lip again, but her eyes were full of determination. He held her gaze as his fingers deftly set to work. Her breath grew shallow, but she didn't blink. Still not looking away, he pushed the gown off her shoulders until it pooled around her hips.

Her eyes were shy and a blush adorned her face. Her ivory skin gleamed in the firelight as his eyes traced her long curves. Her nipples were the same colour as her kiss-swollen lips and the curls covering her mound were a couple of shades brighter than those on her head.

Sansa reached up to lace their fingers together and carded her other hand into his hair to guide him back to her mouth as they lay down together. Their kisses were only interrupted when she felt Jon's smile against her lips and answered it with her own.

She could keep kissing him forever, but there was an unfamiliar tightness building under her skin, causing her to pull hard at his curls and squeeze his fingers. He groaned as a frustrated mewl escaped from her throat. He shifted them so she was on her back and trailed his fingers up her thigh, pushing her skirts aside until his hand was resting next to her mound. He searched her eyes and she let her legs fall open.

He cupped her sex, sending a strange sensation through her core, before sliding a finger between her folds.

"Gods, you're wet, Sansa," he groaned as his forehead touched hers.

She felt as if it was something she should be ashamed of, but his voice betrayed that he liked it so she bumped their noses together and pulled her knees up involuntarily as the tightness in her bones converged where Jon's hand was moving between her thighs. An unfamiliar ache started building, morphing into a tautness that stretched her body as tight as bowstring.

His finger was circling a throbbing nub at the apex of her thighs that had her bucking against his hand and he kissed her cheek before rasping into her ear: "That's it, sweetheart, come on."

The delicious ache kept building, even beyond the point where she thouht she couldn't take it anymore and suddenly it snapped. A wave of pleasure crashed through her body and a white light exploded behind her eyelids. She released a sigh, unaware until then she'd been holding her breath and squeezed her thighs shut.

Jon gathered her in his arms and held her tightly, but she didn't feel close enough. She could hear herself panting, her heart racing in her chest, only loosening her grip on him when she'd come down from her high. Slowly she became more aware and felt his hard manhood pressing into the flesh of her belly.

He was achingly hard and leaking by the time she wrapped her long slender fingers around his length. He couldn't help it, he bucked into her hand and grunted. He forced his heavy eyelids open to find her studying his face, wetting her lips as she stroked up and down his shaft.

* * *

The suddenly bright afternoon light filtering through the windows woke Sansa from her peaceful slumber.

She couldn't remember falling asleep. The heavy and comforting weight of Jon's arm was still slung over her waist. They both must have drifted off at some point. 

A pleasant soreness that had her limbs feeling oddly light kept her confined under the furs. A mild ache and a lingering stickiness between her legs were more proof that what had happened was not a dream. 

She trailed a hand down her neck, over her collarbones, following the curve of her breasts and circling her nipples, tracing the path his lips had followed on her skin.

She had blushed a deep red when his mouth travelled even lower, almost wincing at the wanton sounds that escaped from her lips when he'd shouldered her thighs apart and licked up her slit.

But she had decided to surrender to the feeling and allowd him to kiss and lick and suck, slightly amazed by such a wicked thing being possible, but then he had closed his mouth over the nub his fingers had found earlier and the capabality to form a coherent had thought left her.

She remembered him groaning and humming as he'd coaxed peak after peak out of her, leaving her boneless, as if he was enjoying it even more than she was.  
  
She remembered the way his eyes had darkened when she'd pushed him onto his back and straddled his hips, surprising herself with her boldness.

She'd never enjoyed coupling before, but when she'd lifted her hips to sink down on him, letting him stretch her open only felt good.

He'd kept babbling about how beautiful she was and how perfect she felt as she tried to figure out what to do. He hadn't tried to rush her, only gently guided her movements when she put his hands on her hips.

He'd watched her, until she had begged him to touch her and his hands had roamed over her skin before he sat up and gathered her in his arms so they could move together.

She had peaked one last time like that, his mouth on her neck and his fingers working just above the place where they were joined. Only moments after, he'd released his seed inside of her, whimpering her name into her skin like a prayer.

Her cheeks were hurting from the silly smile that had taken over her face while she remembered their coupling, and suddenly she realized she was being watched.

Jon was awake and he was looking at her, or perhaps gazing was a better word.

When he realized she'd caught him staring, he offered her a silly grin.

"What are you looking at?" she asked.

"You," he answered, pulling her closer. "Only you."


End file.
